The Foyle's War Collection
by TartanLioness
Summary: This will be a collection of my responses to the 100fanfic prompt. Each chapter will be named and numbered after the prompt and the ficlets will be stand-alones and thus not connected to each other. I hope you enjoy them. Marked as complete because there is not an ongoing story and each of the ficlets are finished pieces.
1. 33: Child

Title: 33 Child

Author: TartanLioness

Summary: Response to 100prompt number 33: "Child."

…

It was a strange thing indeed seeing one's usually stoic and reserved former boss kneeling on the floor with a large grin on his face, pushing a wooden train along wooden tracks to a babbling toddler. It was an even stranger thing to realise that said former boss was also her husband of three months and said toddler was, in effect, her step-grandchild. Imagine that, Sam thought to herself and almost laughed. A grandmother at my age!


	2. 80: Innocence

Title: 80: Innocence

Author: TartanLioness

Summary: Response to 100prompt number 80 "Innocence".

The flowers in the front yard were a stark contrast to the burnt house where smoke was still rising from the corner that had been hit. Beams were sticking out and windows had been smashed in by the blast. Ladders had been erected, helping the people who were working in the garden, putting up signs and salvaging what could be salvaged.

Everything seemed horrible and nightmarish and although Foyle knew that there was a war on and that bombs and ruined homes were the norm now, he couldn't get over the flowers in the garden and the young woman sitting amongst them, wearing a coat over her white nightgown, her reddish blonde hair hanging down over her shoulders. Her face was smudged with soot and he felt a strange prickling behind his eyes when he saw the look in hers.

Despite all that she had already gone through, he realised, she had kept a certain innocence about her that had been greatly damaged tonight. Her roommate Jenny had been killed right outside Sam's room in the raid and although Sam had been in bed, too tired to go to the cellar, she had come out alive.

Despite Sam's decision to stay and help and her practical attitude to her predicament, Foyle could tell that Samantha Stewart was far more hurt than she let on; she had lost a great deal of her innocence with this war and it would never be restored.


	3. 21: Death

Title: 21: Death

Author: TartanLioness

Summary: Response to 100prompt number 21: "Death."

….

It all seemed so pointless, Sam thought. She was sitting alone in her darkened living room with a whiskey soda in her hand. She wasn't drinking, though maybe the alcohol would have helped her sleep. Instead she pondered the senseless accident that had killed a young man. A young man who had survived the loss of his mother at a young age, had come out of the war mostly unharmed, who had enticed and appalled the English people with his earnest and beautiful poetry about the war. For this beautiful young man, once so proud in his RAF blues, to be killed by a simple lorry driver who had had too much to drink, it seemed a terrible waste.

She wasn't entirely sure where Foyle had gone. He had left the house without a word an hour earlier and she had decided to let him. She had never seen her otherwise calm and quiet husband lose control like he had when he had found out that Andrew had been killed. He had wept and raged and prowled the house like a wounded animal before finally throwing on his coat and leaving, the door closing too softly behind him.

Sam sighed. She had no way of even beginning to understand what he was going through. Andrew was all he had left of his wife and losing him now after he had come through the war seemed cruel. At least during the war, Foyle had been prepared for the fact that his son might die defending his country. During the war Andrew would have died for something important.

She heard the door open and close quietly and recognised the soft footfalls of her husband. She placed her glass on the small coffee table and stood just as he entered the room. He was still wearing his coat and his eyes were dull with pain.

They didn't cry. They didn't speak. No words were enough to explain their feelings. They just stood there, holding each other tightly.


	4. 26: Disappoint

Title: 26: Disappoint

Author: TartanLioness

Summary: Response to 100prompt number 26: Disappoint.

He seems preoccupied - more so than usual - as I drive him to work. I'm not sure if I should ask about it. He doesn't often like to share his personal thoughts and it is obvious to be that whatever he is brooding over isn't work-related.

I can't help glancing over at him from time to time though; he is biting his lip and looking out through the windshield without seeing anything.

"Everything all right, sir?" I finally inquire, unable to keep my concern for him inside.

"Yes, thanks," he replies immediately. It's a brush off; he doesn't want to talk about whatever is bothering him. Then I can sense him shifting uncomfortably as he relents, "No, not really. I'm just wondering if, erm…"

From the corner of my eye I can see him pursing his lips, biting them, obviously battling with himself over whether or not he should speak his mind. I haven't seen a man this nervous since Jonathan Harley asked me out when we were both seventeen. For a second that thought strikes me, then I push it away. I shouldn't be ridiculous.

"You doing anything this evening?" Foyle asks with renewed certainty and my heart skips a beat or two. Could it be? My blood pounds through my veins as I turn to him slightly.

"Are you asking me out, sir?" I smile.

Then I fight to keep the smile from sliding off my face as he responds with vigour, "Steady on, Miss Stewart. Certainly not! No, er, I was just thinking about, erm, Andrew, er…"

Andrew. Of course. Because a man like him would never be interested in a slip of a girl like me. He is obviously uncomfortable as he tries to avoid asking me to take out his son, and though every hope of spending an evening with him alone has been crushed, I ask, "Is he all right?"

"No, um, well, I don't know," he replies, the pain and concern he feels for his son evident in his voice. "I'm just a bit worried about him. He's not himself at the moment because of the accident and I thought… maybe, ehm… it would do him a bit of good to… get out a bit." His discomfort is clear as he ceases to speak.

"You mean… with me?" I ask, though I know very well that that is exactly what he means.

"Well, no, no, no, well, no, er, er, er…" he stumbles awkwardly. My affection for him grows and I decide to help him out.

"A drive in the countryside, something like that?" I ask as I turn and smile at him.

"Perfect, yes!" Foyle says, relief emanating from him. I continue to speak about the drive I'm supposed to take his son on, smiling all the while.

And I am certainly glad to help him. But at the same time, disappointment courses through me, a dull, heavy feeling that seems to darken even the world around me. Disappointment that a man like Foyle would ask me to go out with his son when all I want is to spend every evening with him like I did when I was staying at his place. Disappointment that my boss obviously can't see me as anything but a girl under his protection - never as the woman who longs for his company and his touch. Disappointment in myself for thinking he could, even for a moment.


	5. 2: Dance

Title: 2: Dance

Author: TartanLioness

Summary: Answer to the 100prompt number 2: Dance

…

He has just stepped out of the taxi when he hears her voice.

"Sir!"

It rings out clear as a bell and though she sounds surprised, he can also hear a smile in her voice. It makes him happy that he can sense so much about her mood just from the tone of her voice.

He turns to her, surprised to see her. "What are you doing here?" he asks. He doesn't mean to sound rude, and hopes she doesn't take offence - he doubts it. She just shrugs.

"I wasn't going to come but then I changed my mind," she explains, clasping her gloved hands in front of her. "Not the place I'd expect to see you," she comments as he accepts his change from the taxi driver and they walk into the building together.

"Well, just doing my bit for Anglo-American relations," he says, placing a hand on the small of her back as they walk through the door. It's a natural gesture for him - it comes easily now that she is in civvies, and he doesn't even consider it until it's too late and his hand is touching her through her overcoat. But she doesn't seem to mind and he decides not to worry about it, smiling about her comment on the superior quality of their hosts' doughnuts.

In the hall, an American private stands ready to take their coats and Foyle politely helps Sam shrug out of hers. After stripping off his own coat, he hands both to the private and then turns to Sam, ready to follow her into the ball room from where he can hear the clamour of the other guests and suddenly it's like someone has wrapped his head in wool. All he can hear is his own blood pounding in his veins and faintly, very faintly, the noise from the party.

She is smiling at him, her hair free from its usual victory roll and tumbling over her shoulders in waves of coppery blonde tresses, the electric lights picking out golden highlights. Her dark eyes are shining with joy and expectation and the dark violet of her demure dress makes her skin look milky white and soft and, God help him, he can't keep his eyes off her.

It hits him like a freight train then; Samantha Stewart is not simply a moderately attractive girl under his protection, but rather a breathtakingly beautiful woman and he _longs_ for her. It takes him by surprise because he never expected to feel that way again, but now all the delight she has brought into his life culminates in this single speechless moment when he realises that he is irrevocably in love with his driver… his son's best girl.

It isn't that he falls for her that very moment - it is rather a matter of it being impossible for him to deny it any longer and as she reaches out for him to take her arm and lead her to the party, he realises that he doesn't even _want _to deny it.

They join the other guests and are greeted by Milner. Samantha kisses his cheek in greeting and for a moment they all stand there chatting. Then the musicians start playing a foxtrot and Foyle finds himself asking Sam to dance.

Her face lights up in a brilliant smile as she accepts and she takes his arm as he leads them onto the dance floor. Suddenly, he feels shy and awkward again.

"I'm afraid I was never very good at this," he apologises as she steps into his arms.

"It doesn't matter," she says lightly and he gets the feeling that she means it.

He steps forward with his left foot, guiding Sam backwards as they shakily make their way through the first basic steps of the dance. After a short while, Foyle feels better about it; Sam follows his lead gracefully and though his dancing is not extravagant at least he remembers the basics well enough.

Sam is wearing high heels, which put her at the same height as him and he can't help but notice how close she is to him. Their eyes are level and her mouth, oh God, her mouth is so close, so tantalisingly red and full and for a moment he is overwhelmed by a desire to kiss her, to pull her even closer and hold her and kiss her senseless, to suck on her lips and taste her mouth… then he shakes the thought, worried that she might read his desire, his desperate longing, in his eyes; chastising himself because this is Sam, she's too young and she's stepping out with his son and it's wrong, wrong, wrong.

He swallows hard and tears his eyes away from her mouth. For a few moments he daren't look at her at all, still afraid of what she'll see in his eyes; then, slowly, he wins back control over his emotions. Then he ventures to look in her eyes and everything crumbles again.

He knows that Sam sees it too, when she looks down and says softly, "Would you mind if we got some fresh air?"

Her face is flushed, but he's not sure it's all from dancing and he easily complies, taking her arm and guiding her off the dance floor. As soon as they are out of the room they feel the cooler air in the deserted hallway, and Sam extricates herself from his arm. For a moment Foyle is disappointed, then he feels her hand in his and tries to swallow the lump that forms in his throat. She intertwines their fingers and her hand feels warm and dry against his. He looks into her eyes and sees his own longing reflected there and he forgets every reason he has for not doing what he is about to do. He pulls her to him, releasing her hand in favour of putting his arms around her and he lowers his lips to hers in a scorching kiss.

For several long moments his whole world consists of this; her warm body pressed against his, the fullness of her breasts against his chest, her hands in what is left of his hair; her taste, the wine she has drunk; her lips, full and sweet as they caress his; her scent, light and intoxicating…

Then he realises that he is kissing Sam and his mind screams at him to pull away from her, to stop before he ruins everything, before she has him arrested for abusing his authority or worse: before he scares her too much to ever win back her friendship.

His body reluctantly obeys his mind and for a few brief moments he stares at Sam. She is as breathless as he, her lipstick is smudged slightly and he can almost hear how fast her heart is beating… then he closes his eyes painfully and stutters an apology.

"I s-shouldn't have done that. For so many different reasons, I shouldn't have done that, not least of which is that you are stepping out with my son, good God," he swears, overcome by guilt.

"I'm not," is her reply. He looks up, his eyes still full of pain. "I'm not stepping out with Andrew," she explains. "If you're going to feel guilty about what just happened at least you should know that I am not stepping out with your son. Or with anyone else. He's sort of thrown me over and before you think that this all happened because I miss Andrew, I want you to know that I was relieved, really, that he broke it off with me, because, well, he's a wonderful boy, but I'm just not in love with him."

She bites her lip and continues, desperately, "The thing is, I happen to be completely and utterly in love with _you_, sir, and I know you probably think it's ridiculous and that I'm too young for you, but I don't care about ages or about what people will say, I just want to dance with you again and stay in your arms and have you kiss me again," she finishes miserably, hating her inability to keep quiet when nervous, and dreading Foyle's response.

For a few moments he tries to come to terms with what she's just blurted out in all her nervousness. Then he steps closer to her again and pulls her into his arms.

They don't dance the foxtrot. In fact they don't dance any particular dance. They just sway softly to the music coming through the door and down the hall, neither speaking.


	6. 97: Stay

Title: 97: Stay

Author: TartanLioness

Summary: Answer to 100prompt number 97: Stay

…

Christopher Foyle was not a weak man by anyone's standards; in fact, everyone who had been in contact with him knew him to be a man of strong moral integrity, who stood by his beliefs and didn't let anyone trample on him. But these people so rarely saw the man beneath the policeman, so rarely noticed that underneath his certainty and composure was a human being, a man who had dreams and loved ones, and who had once experienced a loss that had left him shattered for years afterwards.

When that had happened, he'd retreated into himself, immersing himself in his work as a policeman; an action that reinforced his image as a conscientious and hardworking man, but also distanced people from him.

But Foyle had discovered his own ways of dealing with pain. It wasn't merely a matter of burying it, which would have been unhealthy and ineffective; instead it consisted of letting the pain in occasionally, when it became too much to bear; to feel it and ride it out rather than try to fight it. But even then, sometimes it all just overwhelmed him.

It was the drop that made the cup overflow, he mused; this whole mess with Andrew crash-landing and getting hurt, the uncertainty about his situation, rushing to the hospital to find him relatively unharmed but moody and withdrawn. Andrew's flat-toned comment about his dead friends; Foyle's knowledge that at any time he might lose his only child; the knowledge that Andrew, barely more than a boy, was doing more for the war effort than he, Foyle, would get to do; and hating himself for what, in his current mood, felt like a useless existence.

Andrew was upstairs - had gone up right after a tense dinner which he'd spent sulking - and Foyle was pacing. Five steps away from the dining table, through the archway… turn on his heel and five steps back… and thus it continued, slowly, as he sipped his Glenlivet.

A knock on his door pulled him out of his reverie, making him stop in his tracks. He wasn't really in the mood for visitors, but with a sigh he set down his glass and made his way to the front door.

"Sam?" he asked as he opened the door to find her standing on the step. "What are you doing here?"

"Is Andrew here?" she asked uncertainly.

"He's upstairs, resting," Foyle replied, wondering why she was asking for his son after the way the younger man had treated her earlier that day. "Do you want me to…?"

"No, no," she said quickly. "Actually, I came to see you, sir."

"Oh. You'd better come in," he said, noticing the small white puffs that obscured her face slightly every time she exhaled and the way she was shivering lightly. "Did you walk here?"

"Yes, sir," she affirmed as she walked past him into the hallway, rubbing her hands together to warm them .

"Tea?" he offered, following her into his living room after helping her off with her coat. She nodded gratefully and walked over to the fireplace, stretching out her hands towards the warmth. Foyle disappeared into the kitchen, going through the well-known motions of readying the kettle and tea leaves, and arranging a tray with the tea things.

Then, as he waited for the water to boil, he fell back into his dark thoughts.

As she felt the heat begin to return to her fingers, Sam considered her motives for coming here tonight. The first panic that had seized her boss upon learning of Andrew's accident had faded as soon as he had assured himself that his son was not seriously injured. But ever since, he had seemed preoccupied and somehow… deflated; as though the troubles of the whole world had suddenly come to rest squarely on his shoulders.

A sharp whistle from the kitchen broke into her thoughts and she looked up, expecting the sound to cease and frowning when it didn't. _Why doesn't he take the kettle off the heater?_ Sam wondered briefly, then made her way to the kitchen. There, standing by the sink, she found her boss, a far-away look in his eyes that frightened her a little bit. After quickly removing the kettle from the cooker, she stepped over to Foyle, worried that he didn't even seem to realise she was there. He was resting his hands on the edge of the sink, staring into it without seeing and when she touched his back softly, he started, turning to look at her.

There was pain, so much pain and desperation in his eyes and she couldn't help but reach out to him.

"Sir?" she asked softly, touching his arm gently. "What's wrong?"

When he didn't respond, she bit her lip. Then he made a strangled noise and wrapped his arms around her, frantically holding on to her, and she enfolded him in her embrace, making soothing noises as he buried his face in her neck and clung to her as if his life depended on it.

"Stay," he croaked weakly, and at the sound of his voice she decided that she would do whatever he asked of her. That she would do anything to help this man, for whom she cared so deeply. "Please, Sam. I don't think I can do this without you."

"Don't worry," she replied softly. "I'll stay as long as you need me."


	7. 11: Sorrow

Title: 11: Sorrow

Author: TartanLioness

Summary: Answer to 100prompt number 11: Sorrow.

…

Back at the station, Foyle found Sam slumped in a chair in the small tea kitchen. She looked absolutely worn down

"Sam?"

She looked up, weariness making her eyes dull, and she looked as if she had been crying.

"You all right?" Foyle frowned, stepping over to her and caressing her cheek softly with his hand. She nodded mutely, tears reforming slowly in her eyes. Foyle crouched down next to her. "What happened, darling?"

"I –" she started, swallowing painfully. "I fainted on the fields today. With Joan and Rose. I… I started bleeding. They took me to a doctor."

Tears began rolling down her cheeks. Crouching next to her, Foyle pulled her into his arms, not caring that they had agreed to be professional at work. She needed him.

"I was pregnant, Christopher. I was having your baby and now I've lost it," she began to cry in earnest. "I'm such a fool, I should have known that working in the fields was too hard for me, I should have known what would happen, but I didn't think of it."

"You were pregnant?" Foyle asked quietly, his whole demeanour showing pain. His mind was reeling from her news, his heart breaking at the thought that she had been carrying his child and had been too nervous to tell him. She nodded against his jacket. "Oh darling, why didn't you tell me?"

"I… I didn't know if you'd be happy," she wept.

"Sam," Foyle said softly but firmly, pulling her away from him by her upper arms. "Sam, I asked you to marry me and you said yes. You have shared my bed since our engagement. If I didn't want children with you, none of these things would have happened. I'm so sorry you lost our baby, Samantha, because I don't think there's anything I'd rather see than you swelling with my child."

"Really?" Sam sniffed. He caressed her cheek and leaned in to kiss her sweetly, happy to see that while her eyes were still full of tears there were no trace of fear left.

"Definitely."


	8. 50: Blind

Title: 50: Blind

Author: TartanLioness

Summary: Response to 100prompt number 50: Blind

…

It was just another day in Hastings at war. There was nothing special about it, nor about the case they were currently working. There was no indication that his world was about to change.

He was talking to Milner as they walked outside, discussing the suspect they had just interviewed when he looked up and saw her. There was nothing special about her; she was just standing there by the car, waiting, in her usual beige and khaki, her hair rolled up in its customary victory roll. Everything was just as it always was, but something about it left him speechless.

Maybe it was the way the sun picked out the golden highlights in her hair, the way it seemed to make even her skin glow… maybe it was the way she held her hat under her arm, her hands clasped in front of her, looking the epitome of duty and honour… maybe it was the way her dark eyes seemed to sparkle as the two men neared her…

He didn't really know what had changed, but he felt the change keenly. Maybe she hadn't changed at all; maybe it was his perception. Maybe he had just never seen her like this before. Maybe his eyes just hadn't been open.

Whatever it was, he understood in that moment that he could never go back to viewing her as he had yesterday. He knew and acknowledged that the young woman who was serving under him had found her way to his heart and had ensconced herself securely there and the realisation left him unable to speak, unable to even form a coherent sentence. He understood that for the last few years he had been utterly blind.


	9. 47: Kiss

Title: 47: Kiss

Author: TartanLioness

Summary: Response to prompt100 number 47: Kiss. A somewhat longer response for those of you who were sad about the shortness of the ficlets. Also, I know this mentions a pregnant Edie drinking wine but I would like to point out that in the '40s, there was little awareness that alcohol could be harmful to an unborn child.

…

"A toast!" said Edith Milner with a large smile, one hand holding up her glass of wine, the other placed protectively on her protruding belly. "To our friends! And a happy Christmas!"

Her guests lifted their glasses in salute. "Happy Christmas," they replied.

The Milners' guests, who were placed around the large dining table, were a motley group of people. Foyle and Sam were there, as well as a few of Edith's childhood friends and their husbands, and the mood was light and jovial.

It was the second Christmas since the war and food was more readily available; the turkey they'd shared had inspired Milner to tell his wife and guests about the turkey incident a few years earlier. The others had laughed until they shook when Sam had mock-indignantly insisted that it would have been a crime to waste a perfectly good turkey after the evidence tag had been mislaid. Even Foyle, who was his usual reticent self, had smiled cheerily at the memory. This had been the start of many memories and anecdotes shared as they ate their dinner and little Clementine Milner played on the rug in the dining room, confident that her parents were close by and that the world was a good place.

…

Foyle marvelled that Sam seemed to be her normal bright self despite the end of her relationship with Adam. There was no hint of wistfulness in her demeanour, not the slightest little sign… Instead she was even merrier than normal it seemed, laughing with the Milners and playing with their daughter, singing carols and tucking into her turkey with great gusto.

It was nearly half past nine before the party rose from the dining table to move into the sitting room for coffee and liqueurs.

With regret Sam informed Edith that she'd better push off; she had to get up early the next day in order to go up to Lyminster and spend Christmas with her parents.

"Oh, but Sam, it's really coming down out there," Edie protested, gesturing vaguely to the window and the snow that was quickly covering the ground outside. "Don't you think you ought to wait, at least until it stops snowing?"

"I'd better not, I'm afraid, Edie, though I've really enjoyed the evening. The rum punch will keep me quite warm, I am sure," Sam said lightly as they walked into the hall. A moment later, Foyle joined them, looking disappointed.

"Leaving already?" he asked, one eyebrow raised in question. Sam nodded.

"Yes, sir. Early start tomorrow, I'm afraid. Heading up to Lyminster for Christmas."

"Oh. Well, do allow me to walk you home. Really shouldn't be walking alone in this weather, you know." He smiled crookedly at her.

"That would be lovely," Sam beamed.

"Well, I'd better get Paul. He wouldn't want you to leave without saying goodbye," Edie said, then left to find her husband so he might bid their guests a good-night as well.

Foyle took Sam's coat off its hanger and held it open for her to slip into, and then put on his own woollen coat and scarf.

As Sam lifted her chin to tie her own scarf, she happened to look up and an impish thought sprang into her mind. It was Christmas after all, and all she really wished for was a kiss from her dashing boss. Well, if she were completely honest, all she really wished for was his love, but she'd settle for what was at least within the realm of possibility: a Christmas kiss.

"Do you know, sir, that there is a bit of mistletoe hanging from the lamp?" she asked glibly, blushing a little bit.

He glanced up and immediately spotted the festive bit of greenery. Twisting his lips to bite the inside of his cheek, he said, "So there is."

Had she pointed it out because she wanted him to kiss her? It was amazing that even the notion of the sprig of leaves and berries above them could make his heart race in his chest. Of course, it wasn't actually racing because of the mistletoe… but rather in anticipation of what it meant to be caught underneath said mistletoe with Sam.

"It's jolly bad luck, you know, not to share a kiss," Sam went on, her eyes large and dark in contrast to her pale skin.

"Is it?" He tried to appear calm despite his thudding heart. Sam's eyes were so full of… of what? Despite having known and worked with Sam for five years and having seen her at her best and worst, he was finding it difficult to place the emotions in her beautiful brown eyes. Trust, perhaps, but more than that. Affection? And – dare he even think it? – longing? As well as a hint of anxiety?

Most of all, she just looked joyful.

"Yes, very much. Better not risk it, I'd say, sir."

"No, I don't suppose we'd better," he replied thoughtfully.

He smiled and leaned in to peck her lips. It took all his willpower to pull back after the merest of touches and when he did, he noticed that Sam was biting her lip and looking… disappointed? Reaching up, he picked a small, white berry off the plant and offered it to his companion.

"Happy Christmas, Sam," he said.

Accepting it, she replied despondently, "And to you, sir."

"Everything all right?"

"Yes, sir. I suppose I just thought you might want to… never mind, sir. I'd better push off."

A hand on her elbow stopped her from walking past him.

"Thought I might want to… do what?" he enquired gently. Sam looked down, chewing on her lower lip.

"It doesn't matter, sir," she said softly.

"Sam," he entreated her. She sighed.

"I just thought you might kiss me… properly," she said, feeling utterly humiliated.

"Oh." It was insufficient, he knew. But despite everything, her frank invitation to kiss her left him stunned and dazed.

"Please just forget it, sir." Again her departure was halted by his hand on her arm.

"Do you _want_ me to kiss you? Properly?" he asked quietly when she finally raised her eyes to meet his. She nodded slowly and he took a deep breath to slow his heartbeat.

He lifted his hand from her arm to caress her cheek tenderly, thrilled that Sam seemed to be as full of anticipation as he was. He neared her slowly, giving her time to pull away, and when she didn't he let his lips touch hers again. This time he didn't immediately pull back; instead he lingered, increasing the pressure on her mouth when he heard her soft gasp in response.

When he broke contact, Sam's eyes were still closed and a small smile played on her rosy lips.

"All right, Sam?" Foyle asked gently.

"Mmh, tickety-boo, sir," she replied dreamily, finally opening her eyes and bestowing upon him a full, glorious smile as she reached up to pick another berry from the mistletoe above them.

Mimicking his earlier gesture, she held it out to him. He took it from her and put it carefully into his pocket. Then, despite the possibility of returning Milners, he placed his hands on her arms and drew her into a warm embrace. She slipped her hands inside his open coat and placed them on the lapels of his suit jacket – one curled up in a fist around the berry he had picked for her, the other flat against his chest, feeling his quick heartbeat through the material.

His arms were surprisingly strong as they encircled her and she wished that she could just stay there forever, letting her senses be overwhelmed… the heat from his body, the feeling of his pulse beneath her fingers revealing how much their shared kisses had thrilled him, his masculine scent, the sight of his crinkled eyes as he smiled at her...

This time it was she who leaned in to touch her lips to his, one hand holding on to his lapel as she pulled him nearer. His arms tightened around her, nearly crushing her to him as he parted her lips and slipped his tongue in to play leisurely with hers.

Her hands wandered up around his shoulders and into his hair, the fingers of one hand tangling in the slight curls at the back of his head. A warm wave of pleasure washed over him at the sensation and he intensified his kiss. Under her coat, his hands were tracking a meandering path up her spine, caressing her back gently through the fabric of her dress.

Parting from him, Sam breathlessly licked her swollen lips. He couldn't help but smile widely as he plucked another berry and let it slip into his pocket along with the one Sam had offered him.

He allowed her time to breathe by lovingly kissing her throat, thrilling at the impassioned sounds she was making as his lips caressed the tiny leap of her pulse. One hand he kept on her hip as he cupped her face sweetly with the other, stroking her flushed cheeks and entangling his fingers in her coppery curls.

She repaid him by dodging his lips when they next sought hers, instead sucking sweetly on his earlobe. _Dear God, where did she learn that?_ he wondered, closing his eyes to savour the sensation. A groan escaped him and he almost felt embarrassed until Sam pulled away and he discovered the twinkle in her dark eyes as she reached up to pick yet another berry. He couldn't stop himself leaning in again and –

The sound of Paul's slow, irregular gait made them jump apart guiltily, both turning to face the door to the drawing room. Foyle discreetly lifted a hand to wipe off any tell-tale signs of Sam's lipstick on his face, at the same time glancing over to make sure that Sam's own lips were free of incriminating smudges.

When the door opened and their hosts emerged, Foyle was reasonably sure that both he and Sam, though flushed and smiling like fools, weren't showing any outward sign of what had passed between them.

"I'm sorry it took so long. I'm afraid Kitty was telling Paul a rather amusing tale and wouldn't allow him to leave, not even to say goodbye to his guests," Edie said, rolling her eyes at her friend's behaviour while the departing pair smiled good-naturedly.

"It was lovely seeing you," Paul said, reaching out to shake Foyle's hand and bending to kiss Sam's cheek softly. "Thank you for coming."

"Thank you for inviting us, we had a lovely time," said Sam, beaming up at the tall man. "And happy Christmas!"

"Happy Christmas," Milner replied with a smile, following his guests out onto the front step. "Goodnight, sir. Sam."

"Goodnight," they bade before walking off.

Soon the house was obscured by the falling snow and Foyle let his gloved hand find Sam's as they walked side by side. She glanced up at him briefly, a smile on her lips, and squeezed his hand.

…

Returning to the warmth of his hall, Paul found Edith standing underneath the sprig of mistletoe they'd hung up. With a mischievous smile, he walked over to her and put his arms around her, glancing down at her belly with love.

"Look up," he muttered. She did. Then she laughed.

"Sorry, darling," she said, averting his kiss. "All the berries are gone. That means the end of the kissing, I'm afraid."

Startled, Milner looked up and inspected the sprig more closely. When he'd hung it up earlier, he was certain he'd noticed several clusters of berries, and while he was certainly aware that a few couples had already made use of the Christmas privilege connected with the plant, he wondered how on earth all the berries could have disappeared so quickly.

…

By the front door of Sam's billet, the young woman dug her hand into her pocket and held a small twig above her head, giving her companion a meaningful look. He glanced up at the bit of mistletoe she'd pinched and then, without reluctance, he complied.


	10. 88: Moonlight

Title: 88: Moonlight

Author: TartanLioness

Summary: Response to 100prompt number 88: Moonlight.

…

Christopher Foyle lay awake. This in itself was not unusual, but this night he wasn't mulling over a case or thinking about Rosalind or worrying about Andrew, nor was he huddled in a shelter as bombs fell from the sky. In fact, now that the war was over and he had retired, he was hoping to never have to do three of those again.

Instead he was pondering how he had come to be such a lucky dog.

Summer had come and it was warm in his bedroom. Next to him his sleeping lover had kicked off the covers and rolled onto her stomach as she slept.

The moonlight shone through the window and caressed her naked body, and Foyle lay close to her, letting his eyes roam over her form. She was turned away from him, her hair resting in messy waves over her bare back and freckled shoulders (Foyle took a moment to recall the time he had spent tasting the freckles on her soft, pale skin earlier that night) and he let his gaze wander from her curls, following the curve of her spine down to her buttocks, the skin looking silvery and infinitely soft in the light from the nearly full moon.

He couldn't help himself; he reached out and touched her hip gently. She moaned quietly in her sleep and shifted, rolling over to face him. In her sleep, her sweet face was relaxed, her mouth pouting slightly as though she were expecting a kiss. Her eyelashes, a shade or two darker than her hair, formed a fan across her cheeks, fluttering as she dreamed.

Again Foyle marvelled that this beautiful, intelligent young woman loved and wanted him as much as he wanted and loved her. Part of him felt guilty that he had taken her to bed so quickly and without the benefit of wedlock, but she had been so enticing and passionate and he had needed her so much; she had told him she wanted him and when had he ever been able to deny her anything? He only hoped that she wouldn't regret what had occurred between them when she woke up.

But he also knew that no matter what happened, he would always remember the sight of her sleeping, naked body in the moonlight.


	11. 43: Haunted

Title: 43: Haunted

Author: TartanLioness

Summary: Answer to 100prompt number 43: Haunted.

…

He never says anything. Never even mentions it with a word. He just disappears with no explanation for a few hours. It happens every year on the same day, and Sam doesn't mind. She just makes sure there is a warm fire going when he returns to ward off the cold of the dreary February day.

It's been sixteen years, she decides, after counting up from 1932. Sixteen years since he lost her and still his eyes get that haunted look every February 21st.


	12. 53: Rain

Title: 53: Rain

Author: TartanLioness

Summary: Response to 100prompt number 53: Rain.

…

"You don't have to come with me," Foyle said, opening the door of the Wolseley.

Sam was already leaving the car too, though, saying briskly, "Oh, but it's such a lovely day out, I'd love to stretch my legs for a bit and enjoy the sun. Do you mind, sir?"

"'Course not," he replied, thinking fondly to himself that she was unstoppable anyway. "Come along, then."

The gravel path was meandering and narrow – much too narrow for the Wolseley to enter – and passed between large old chestnuts; a picturesque display of a pastoral idyll.

As the pair fell into step with each other down the path, Sam asked, "Do you really think Mr Bird did it, sir?"

"Well, he has a motive," Foyle replied, preparing to once again draw her into his investigation. "He has a past with the victim; they were at school together, apparently close friends. We've a witness saying that they fought after the victim behaved callously to Mr Bird's sister, and that the argument ended in a scuffle.

"However, we also know that he cited moral grounds when he became a conscientious objector, claiming that he didn't believe in violence. The board agreed with him; possibly because his job here is important enough to warrant an exemption from active duty anyway – as well as the fact that he had just had a child at the time."

"Isn't it quite strange to end up in a brawl when one is against violence?" Sam questioned, glancing sideways at her boss.

"It is," Foyle agreed, casting a half-amused, half-proud glance her way. "Which is why we'll be asking about that. Now."

They'd reached a small, old farm house; a little dilapidated, but neat, with clean windows and a tidy farmyard. A clothesline was stretched between the main house and a small outbuilding, the clothes flapping slightly in the breeze. Beneath a couple of flowered dresses, five worn shirts and a horde of nappies, chickens pecked the ground, clucking softly amongst themselves.

As Sam and Foyle crossed the farmyard, a toddler scampered out of the door, waving his arms at the chickens. When they startled and began to squawk loudly, the child laughed happily.

"Joey!" scolded a feminine voice from inside the house, and a heavily pregnant young woman appeared in the doorway. "Leave the chickens alone!"

Noticing the strangers, she raised her eyebrows. "May I help you?" she asked.

"You may," Foyle replied, walking closer. "My name is Foyle, I'm a policeman. Is your husband home?"

Mrs Bird looked from Foyle to Sam and back. "This is about Danny, isn't it?"

"It is," Foyle confirmed.

"You'd better come in, then."

…

"Mr Bird, a witness says they saw you fighting with Daniel Whitmore a few days before he was killed?"

The powerfully built young man nodded, "I did argue with Danny. I was mad at him for the way he'd treated Marcie. My sister. But we weren't fighting. Danny had been drinking and he got… angry. He took a swing at me and I… well, I overpowered him, I suppose. I didn't hit him. I don't believe violence solves anything, but I wasn't going to stand there and let him beat me senseless. I just held his arms down and took him outside to cool down. Of course that only made him even angrier, but in the end he spat at me and left. I went home after that."

Patrick Bird's strong arms were resting on the rustic kitchen table, his sleeves rolled up, and for a moment he hid his face in his hands.

"I was very upset with Danny, I won't deny that. But I wouldn't kill him. Why would I kill him? We grew up together!"

Mrs Bird placed a hand gently on his back in a tender display of support and courage; Foyle looked away briefly, allowing the couple some privacy.

After a few moments, Foyle continued, "Mr Bird, is there anyone you know who might have wanted to hurt Mr Whitmore?"

Bird looked up from his hands, his eyes weary. "I don't know. Danny was a bit hot-headed, but he was generally well-liked."

"And your sister?"

"Marcie wouldn't hurt anyone! And besides, she was here," Bird protested heatedly.

"Is there anyone else she may have told about him? About his treatment of her? A friend, perhaps? Someone who might have… taken revenge?"

"I don't know," the young man lamented, once again burying his head in his hands. "I don't know, I don't know…"

At the sight of the visibly distressed Bird, Foyle glanced over at Sam and gestured towards the door with his head. They both rose and Foyle said, "We may have some more questions for you, Mr Bird. But for the moment… Thank you for your time."

…

The sky had turned grey while they were interviewing the farmer and instead of being hit by warm rays of sunshine as they left the house, they were greeted by gusts of wind. Sam sighed.

Foyle looked over at her; he knew what she was thinking: _Typical of the English summer. _He smiled slightly. _Indeed._

They'd only taken a few steps down the gravel path when it began to drip from the dark clouds looming above. They increased their pace, but the rain fell harder, hitting their bodies like tiny rocks, and soon they were both drenched.

"In here!" Foyle called and swerved as he ran, finding shelter beneath the majestic canopy of leaves of an old chestnut. Sam was right on his heels, almost crashing into him as he stopped. Standing close to the trunk, they stared at each other for a few seconds. Then Sam giggled, breaking the silence. Foyle's mouth curved up slowly as he took off his trilby and shook it free of water; then his lips finally split into a rare, full grin as he laughed at the absurdity of their situation.

For a long moment they laughed themselves silly as fat droplets of water continued to pelt the path beyond their cosy hideaway, quickly turning the gravel and dirt into a small stream.

One of Sam's stockings had twisted itself during their mad dash for cover and she leaned down to fix it. As she straightened back up, she flicked wet, clingy strands of hair into her own face and she grimaced. Then she realised that Foyle had stopped laughing, and turned her eyes to him.

His mouth was slightly open and there was a look in his eyes that she wasn't sure how to describe; it left her breathless. Her heart, already thumping apace from their run, beat heavier in her chest as he reached out and slowly pushed the strands of sodden hair away from her face. As his fingers touched the skin of her forehead, their eyes locked.

He didn't know what made him do it. In fact he didn't realise he was doing anything until suddenly his fingers were brushing her skin. As their eyes locked, he couldn't help but wonder how her hair would look clinging to her naked shoulders, how her skin would taste with the accent of small drops of water, and he forgot how to breathe.

He lowered his hand from her forehead as slowly as he had lifted it. Everything seemed deliberate, as though what was about to happen had been planned forever.

Neither of them was laughing anymore. The moment was too tense for laughter.

Sam reached up hesitatingly and brushed the raindrops out of his eyebrows, letting her hand rest lightly on his cheek when they were gone.

Her touch was feather-light and slightly insecure as her fingers ghosted over his skin, brushing drops from his face as well.

Unable to stand any more, Foyle grabbed her hand in his, holding it to his face. His eyes never left Sam's as he slowly turned his face and let his lips run over her palm.

Sam's breath hitched in her throat as she felt his lips caress her skin and her heart was thudding so loudly it was drowning out all other noise.

She let her thumb run over his lips, tracing their contours and wondering briefly how she dared. Perhaps it was the look in his eyes, the one she couldn't define; perhaps it was because his breath seemed as laboured as hers. She lowered her hand to place it on his drenched lapels, feeling his heart beat wildly beneath her fingers.

"Christopher," she said, her voice surprisingly hoarse. It was a strange feeling to have his name roll off her tongue, and yet it was easier than she would have imagined.

It happened ever so slowly; they seemed to drift closer until his lips brushed against hers in soft butterfly touches, hesitating, restrained, afraid to give in.

Frustrated, Sam raised her other hand to cup his neck, threading through the wet curls there, and pulled him closer, finally claiming his mouth with hers.

Foyle dropped his hat as he enfolded her in his arms and accepted her kiss.

…

The rain had actually stopped before they again took note of their surroundings. As Foyle stepped back, he straightened his tie unnecessarily and bent down to pick up his trilby from where it had landed on the damp grass.

Sam watched him nervously as he brushed water from his hat and placed it back on his head. She was unsure of what was running through his mind; worrying that he was regretting what they'd done.

He must have read her mind because he finally looked at her and sent her a somewhat sheepish smile.

"We'd better get back," he suggested. "And we can talk on the way."

Sam nodded. "Yes, sir."

"I preferred 'Christopher,'" he said quietly, biting the inside of his lip.

Sam blushed a little as she spoke his given name again and it was one of the loveliest things he'd ever laid eyes on: a flushed, dishevelled Sam with lips swollen from their kisses and a look of complete joy in her dark eyes.

As they returned to the path, making their way among the puddles of rainwater, Foyle reached out his hand and grasped hers. Throwing her a quick glance, he thrilled at the shy little smile on her lips as her hand squeezed his.

AN:

It's raining so much in Denmark today, so I figured, what the what, I'll post this one today :D I hope you enjoyed it. Reviews are a woman's best friend!


	13. 85: Machine

Title: 85: Machine

Author: TartanLioness

…

The rain was pounding hard against the glass of the window behind Foyle. On this dreary April morning, Sam was somewhat happier than normal that she wasn't out on the water-soaked roads, driving Mr Foyle to and fro on police business. Instead, she was sitting nice and warm in Mr Foyle's dining room, clacking away on the typewriter while a cup of tea rapidly cooled in front of her.

"In May 1941 the Force secured the services of a builder for the repair of bomb damage, at the Town Council's union rate of pay," Foyle continued to dictate at a slow pace while she busily clacked at the typewriter keys.

Sam sighed with frustration as the keys jammed for the seventh time in less than two hours. Remembering the exasperated look on Foyle's face yesterday when the keys jammed and she answered his question about why they weren't using her shorthand, she tried to unjam the keys as quickly as possible.

Foyle, though he had stopped his narration, didn't comment. Sam blushed under his scrutiny as she only seemed to manage to get the keys more tangled up in each other.

"I really don't know why you put up with me, sir," she said somewhat hopelessly. "You're a far more experienced typist than I am."

"Well, I may well be, but that's not the point," he responded with a business-like tone of voice.

"Isn't it?"

"No, it isn't. The point is that I'd rather _not_ type for extended periods at a time; and that speaking the words out loud seems to help me focus. And last, but certainly not least, it could be that I simply enjoy your company," Foyle finished dryly, giving her a steady look across the table.

Sam lowered her eyes as a blush crept into her cheeks. "Oh," she said. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Of course if you'd rather I did type it myself…" Foyle trailed off, raising an eyebrow teasingly. Sam smiled self-consciously.

"No, of course not. I enjoy the work. And your company."

"Good," Foyle smiled. "I'm glad. Enough to put up with the typewriter?"

"Absolutely," she replied with a grin.


	14. 89: Answer

Title: 89: Answer

Author: TartanLioness

…

Foyle's mood was brilliant as he walked down the cobbled streets of Hastings. The sun shone from a cloudless sky and a soft breeze was wafting through the city on the coast.

His errand was a discreet matter and he had chosen the day carefully; Sam was in Lyminster visiting her parents, so there would be no risk of running into her in Hastings.

Of course, he hadn't counted on ever needing to visit such a shop again – and certainly not to purchase what he had set out to today.

A bell jingled as Foyle opened the door and stepped into the well-lit room. The jeweller looked up over his half-moon spectacles and smiled kindly.

"Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?"

"Afternoon. I'm erm… looking for a ring, an engagement ring to be specific. Something simple; gold, maybe a diamond."

"Certainly, sir," said the jeweller just as the bell tinkled again, signalling the arrival of another patron. "Excuse me."

Foyle nodded good-naturedly, his eyes following the man as he went into the back room.

"Sir!"

Startled, Foyle turned around, his eyebrows shooting up as he realised that it was Milner. Acutely aware that the jeweller was at the moment fetching a case of engagement rings for him to peruse, and that only Sam's parents were aware that their relationship had changed at all, he smiled awkwardly and extended a hand.

"Milner! What on earth are you doing in Hastings?"

"Edie's birthday is coming up," the younger man smiled. "I remember seeing a rather lovely necklace in here before we moved, and I wanted to see if it was still here. And you?"

Wildly, Foyle tried to think of an excuse: new wristwatch? Cufflinks?

Before he could say anything though, the jeweller returned.

"Ah, here we are, sir. Engagement rings, gold, with diamonds and without."

Foyle closed his eyes briefly and raised an eyebrow as he sent the jeweller a sidelong glance. Worrying his lip, he uneasily rubbed a few fingers across his forehead before he shifted his gaze back to Milner.

The Inspector was smiling awkwardly, not altogether managing to hide his perplexity. "You're remarrying?" he asked, more directly than tactfully.

"Well, that's not altogether certain," Foyle replied drily. "Haven't asked her yet."

"May I ask…?" Milner trailed off, nevertheless leaving no doubt to the end of his question.

"Well, you can ask," said Foyle, pausing. Then he relented. "No, it's, ehm, it's Sam."

A surprised but infinitely pleased smile grew on Milner's face as he reached out to shake Foyle's hand again. Foyle tried to roll his eyes but couldn't help smiling as well.

"In that case, sir, I don't think you need to worry about her answer."

"Don't I?"

"If you don't mind my saying so, sir, I always thought that there was a special bond between you."

…

Despite Milner's apparent assurance, Foyle felt positively anxious when, a few days later, he was waiting for it to be time to leave. The two proposals he had previously extended, many years ago, meant nothing tonight – and in any case, only one of them had been accepted.

In his trouser pocket a small velvety box rested; its weight reassuring against his leg. His plans for the day were hopeful but somewhat vague; to get out of the house where he'd lived with Rosalind, take Sam out to tea, then find somewhere quiet, and somehow manage to ask her for her hand in marriage… hopefully procuring a positive answer.

A quick glance at his watch told Foyle that it was time to leave, and he gratefully abandoned his half-formed thoughts as he put on his hat and left the house in Steep Lane.

A brisk walk through the city brought him to Sam's digs, and the door opened as he was walking up the gravel path. Half-way between the street and the house, Sam joined him.

"Hello, darling," she said as she stepped into his embrace, planting a light, brief kiss on his lips. He smiled at her and tightened his arms around her waist.

"You're looking lovely this afternoon, my dear," he said, throwing an appreciative glance at her attire: a flowing, light green dress accompanied by a cream-coloured cardigan to ward off a possible evening chill.

Sam smiled almost shyly, still not entirely used to the way he looked at her with such warmth – and such undisguised love.

"Thank you." She pressed another soft kiss to his lips.

Foyle offered her his arm and she looped hers through it. They'd taken many strolls through Hastings like this; their courtship had started in the autumn and they'd gone on many walks until the cold had made it impractical. Foyle fondly remembered one walk in particular; in the early days of their courtship, just as the leaves had begun to turn colours, they had made their way up to the ruin of Hastings Castle where they had huddled together in a niche, kissing passionately. Sam's arms had wound themselves around his middle inside his coat – "for warmth," she'd said with a glint in her eyes – and he had held her close without protesting.

It had been a beautiful day.

It was much warmer now and neither was wearing a coat, but they walked close together anyway. Their stroll towards the coast was leisurely and unhurried, their conversation light and easy; but Foyle's free hand constantly seemed to stray to his trouser pocket and his mind to what lay there, and the question he'd soon ask the woman walking by his side.

When they reached the coast, the couple stopped briefly to glance out across the water. Sam remembered the day she'd first seen these beaches unmarred by barbed wire, and how she'd wept.

That moment more than anything else had proved to her that the war was truly over and they had won.

Now as she held Foyle's hand in hers, she marvelled at how easily the human mind gets used to a new view. A new _anything_, she mused. Like her relationship with the man at her side: she'd been his driver for so long it had become part of her identity, and yet she had easily shed that part of herself and slipped into her new role as his… as his what, exactly? It wasn't that she in any way doubted her position in his life, but it was difficult to put a label to it. His best girl? The term seemed too young and childish for him. His lover? That was perhaps the best description of her, but not one she could use in public. And in any case, what need had they for labels? Her parents had been told of the change in their relationship out of a deep-rooted sense of decorum on Christopher's part, but the couple had seen no reason to divulge the news to the broad public, and so had no need or desire to explain to anyone exactly what they were to each other. But to herself – usually in the middle of the night as she lay in her own narrow bed or safely ensconced in Foyle's arms, listening to the beat of his heart as he slept – she admitted freely that what she truly wanted was to be with him forever.

A soft tug on her arm brought her out of her reverie, and she followed Foyle into The Royal Victoria.

Their tea was served, along with a platter of sandwiches and scones, and Sam poured them each a cup. Her years working for the man seated across from her had taught her all she needed to know about how he liked his tea, and she prepared it now with the ease that comes from practice.

She also knew exactly how much jam and Devonshire cream to place on the halves of his scone, and which sandwiches were his favourite. But to her surprise, he was not eating much of the relatively sumptuous offerings before them; instead he seemed preoccupied in a way she hadn't ever seen him before, even when attempting to solve the most difficult of cases. He was almost… fidgety.

At one point she met his eyes quizzically and he gave her a funny little smile. Usually his smile for her was accompanied by knowing eyes and a crook of his eyebrow (she had long had to suppress a shiver at how attractive she found that little arch), but today he kept giving her somewhat nervous little smiles that were unfamiliar to her.

"Are you all right?" Sam finally asked.

"Yes, yes," Foyle reassured her, and for a few moments he attempted to gather his wits around the tea tray and his companion, but soon his answers to her questions became absent-minded again.

...

"How about a stroll through the gardens?" asked Foyle softly as she put down her now-empty tea cup, raising his eyebrows at her in question.

"That would be lovely," replied Sam, smiling at him despite the nervous bubble in her stomach. There was something worrying about his preoccupation, about his fidgeting…

Had he been a lesser man, Sam would have thought he was trying very hard to avoid telling her something he knew he would eventually have to. But this was Christopher Foyle and he was many things, but not a coward. Nevertheless, Sam couldn't help but feel edgy.

The gardens proved sunny with a mild breeze wafting through, making the leaves rustle, but the thing that Foyle appreciated most was its utter lack of other patrons.

The couple sat down on a bench under an old oak and Foyle took his young lover's hand in his.

"Sam, I…" he began, then faltered. He let go of her hand and stood, thrusting his now-free hand into his pocket, and he grasped the ring box tightly.

Sam regarded him with concern.

"Is something wrong, Christopher?" she asked quietly.

"No, no," he replied quickly. "I just, ehm…"

He grasped her hands in one of his and, looking intently into her eyes, lowered himself to one knee in front of her. Fumbling slightly, he pulled the small velvet case out of his pocket, flipped it open, and presented it to her.

Sam's eyes were large and doe-like, and they held his steadfastly.

"Will you marry me?" Foyle asked softly.

End.

reviews make my day!


	15. 90: Rest

Title: Rest

Author: TartanLioness

…

The house was quiet when Sam entered it. Not in the dull way a house is quiet when it is unoccupied but rather a sort of tranquil, lovely quietness that made even the often exuberant young woman tread softly as she walked down the hallway. Knowing that the house currently held an extra resident in the shape of Andrew's very lively 13-month-old, Sam glanced at her wristwatch and decided that it must be time for Rosie's nap.

After shrugging off her coat, Sam opened the door to the living room, and stopped in her tracks as she suddenly caught her breath. Her hand flew to her mouth even as a tender smile graced her face.

Foyle was somewhat slumped in his favourite armchair, head lolling forward. His jacket and waistcoat had both been discarded, as well as his tie, and the top buttons on his dress shirt were undone. His arms were holding his precious granddaughter to his chest, wrapped around her safely as they both slept. The little girl looked as peaceful as her grandfather as she lay on her stomach on his chest, her small fist curled into his shirt.

Amused and happy despite the tears in her eyes, Sam walked over to the sleeping man and softly stroked his hair. Then she settled into the other armchair with a book.

A/N: reviews are a girl's best friend...


	16. 31: Happy

Title: 31: Happy

Author: TartanLioness

A/N: Tissue warning, people. Serious tissue warning!

…

Sam quietly entered the bedroom. For a moment she stood still just inside the door and watched her step-son sitting by his father's bedside. Walking over to Andrew, she placed a hand softly on his shoulder. He turned his eyes to her; even at nearly sixty, he was still fit and still handsome with his steely grey hair and charming smile.

"Go get some rest, Andrew," Sam said. "I'll stay with him."

Andrew nodded with a tired smile and rose from the chair. When he had left the room, Sam crawled into bed and lay next to her husband of almost thirty years. He was breathing deeply, quietly, and she could almost believe he was sleeping peacefully if she hadn't known better.

He was dying; his body had given up, the cancer had taken over.

Sam moved nearer to him; he lifted his arm up to pull her closer to him and put it around her as she rested her head on his chest. One of his hands was on her shoulder, holding her tight; the other found hers on his chest and tangled his fingers with hers.

"Sam?" he asked quietly, waiting for her response before continuing, "Have I made you happy?"

She clutched his hand tighter in hers as tears began to sting behind her eyes. "Yes, Christopher. You've made me very happy. These thirty-six years with you have been the best of my life; particularly the twenty-nine years as your wife. I haven't regretted marrying you for a single minute."

"I know it hasn't been easy for you; being with an old man, having to put up with other people's prejudice…"

"It never mattered, darling. I told you when we married that I'd rather have ten years with you and have the whole of Hastings wagging their tongues about me than live all my life with another man. Turns out I got almost three times as long with you and for that, I could have suffered through any gossip. I love you, Christopher."

"I love you, too, Samantha," he replied softly.

For a long time they lay there without talking. Then Foyle heard his wife's breath even out as she fell asleep. He smiled to himself. He knew how exhausted she was; how much energy she was spending trying to keep up a brave face for him.

He was dying and not even Sam's cheerful attitude could hide that from him. He could see it in her eyes and feel it in his body, and the way she held his hand tightly even as she slept – as though she didn't want to let him go.

He had a feeling he might not wake if he went to sleep now; it would be for the best, he knew, not to drag it out. But he wanted to savour this moment a little longer. Before he met Sam, he had envisioned himself dying alone with only Andrew there to grieve. Now, although he was sad to cause her pain, he was going to die with his beautiful wife sleeping in his arms; she wouldn't even have to watch him slip away.

He whispered a soft "I love you" to the slumbering woman and closed his eyes to sleep, his lips curving in a small smile.

..


	17. 27: Crossroads

Title: 27: Crossroads

Author: TartanLioness

…

I see it with a sudden clarity when she joins me at lunch. Perhaps living in such proximity to her at Hill House somehow blinded me, but suddenly all the little signs seem to connect as pieces of a much larger puzzle; for a moment I despise myself for not figuring it out sooner.

The signs have been there since the beginning; even when I met her, her mind was full of him. But I allowed myself to believe that they were only what she said – that they were merely working colleagues and unlikely friends.

But I can tell that she's been crying again. It's obvious from the redness of her eyes and her pale face that she has spent another night weeping. The first time I ever saw Sam cry was when we drove home from the docks last summer, but in the months since then I have seen the aftermath of her tears too many times to count. I've just been too blind to see. Or too afraid.

Because the truth is that I love her. I love her more than I could possibly put into words; and even now, when my mind finally offers me the solution to the puzzle, I scramble for some other explanation, some other way of solving it.

I could say nothing – it would be so easy to say nothing. She has agreed to marry me, to spend the rest of her life with me, and nothing could make me happier. A lifetime together; she could learn to love me, couldn't she? If I say nothing, she will marry me before the year is through and I will get to hold her in my arms and soothe her anguish and I will have the chance to nurture her fondness for me – for I know she must be fond of me! – into love. Into the love I have for her. Into the love she has for Mr Foyle. Oh, it is so abundantly clear. She despairs, not simply because she misses her friend, but because she fears that her love for him is doomed, that he could never reciprocate.

I'm caught at a crossroads and completely unsure of which direction to take. My entire being longs to simply do nothing and continue down the path I've been taking so far; the path that will lead me to my future with Sam… but she deserves better than that. She deserves to be truly happy, and though I long to, I must admit to myself that I can't make her that. I must admit that her true happiness lies down a different road than mine. And that I must let her go, even if it shatters me to do so.

...


	18. 60: Letter

Title: Letter

Author: TartanLioness

July 1918,

Somme, France.

It was almost dark, though it was not much past noon. The air was thick with dust, constantly in motion. With every grenade, every bullet that hit the ground above the trenches, a new spray of dirt was propelled into the air; it got everywhere. The young officer who was enjoying a brief moment to himself could barely remember the last time he'd been clean, the last time his skin hadn't felt gritty to the touch. But it was a minor consideration; he would gladly have been dirty for the rest of his life if only he could go home and never again have to be in the middle of a war.

In 1914 when the war began, he, like many others, had believed it a noble effort, had been convinced by the government and particularly by the eloquent speeches of men like Lloyd George – speeches in which they proclaimed the war a necessity to protect small countries like Belgium or Serbia and Montenegro from the threat of Germany and Austria-Hungary. Of course, it was easy to feel that way as a civilian, when you didn't have to live the horrors of trench warfare.

Now, as he sat there in the shelter, a temporary officer and gentleman, he had long since shed any illusion about war, and a kind of grim endurance had taken its place.

He supposed he ought to be proud of himself. He'd been given a command – the very idea of giving a commoner command of anything had seemed ludicrous at the beginning of the war, but it had become a necessity with the death of so many of Britain's nobility – and he'd done well in his post. His men looked to him for courage, and somehow he managed to give it to them.

But beneath his brave façade, beneath the uniform he had to live up to, Christopher Foyle wanted nothing more than to go home, and the honorary title of 'temporary officer and gentleman' meant nothing as long as he knew that it had been given to him only because of the death of his comrades.

"Would you like a cuppa, sir?"

Startled out of his sombre thoughts, Foyle looked up to see one of his men with two cups in his hands. Gratefully he nodded. "That would be lovely, thank you, Corporal."

After handing over one cup of steaming coffee, the corporal saluted and then moved on, leaving Foyle alone once more.

As he slowly sipped the warm liquid, Foyle reached into his uniform and pulled out the letter he'd received the same morning. The postal service was irregular at best and when he opened the letter he found the date _'10 May 1918'_ written at the top in Rosalind's beautiful penmanship. He sighed in relief, having longed to hear from his young wife. The shelter was a cold and dismal place, and the ceaseless roar of gunfire and grenades hitting the ground made it difficult to sleep properly. The constant strain had begun to wear on all of them, but there seemed to be no end in sight.

Trying to block out the sounds of artillery, Foyle settled down to read his letter.

"_My darling Christopher,"_ it began.

"_I hope with all my heart that you are well and that you are keeping your courage up. We're all so proud of you and we think of you daily. _

_I wish you could be here, my beloved, because I have news; you have a son. He was born a week ago, May 3__rd__, and he is a beautiful little creature. I thought we might call him Andrew in memory of your father? Andrew Charles Foyle, perhaps?_

_He has a headful of hair, dark brown just like yours, though without the curls, and large, blue eyes. The doctors say that his eye colour may change, but I hope not; his eyes remind me so much of yours. His behaviour, too, reminds me of you. He is rather quiet and he seems to take a great interest in his surroundings. He is so small and his head is so big, it's a wonder he manages to lift it at all, but sometimes when he's lying on my stomach he lifts his head just a little to look up at me. Oh, Christopher, he is a beautiful little boy and I can't wait for you to see him. _

_I will try to have a photograph taken and sent to you as soon as possible. _

_Your mother is well and sends her best wishes; we all miss you terribly and anxiously await your return. _

_I love you._

_Yours,_

_Rosalind"_

Foyle's throat constricted with held-back tears as he slowly folded the letter again and put it safely back in his inner pocket. He had a son! The knowledge swept over him and for a moment, he let down his defences to allow himself to be overwhelmed by this new emotion welling within him. His wife had borne him a son, and though he had no face to put to the name yet, he knew that the little boy Rosalind had given him would become infinitely dear to him. Already his heart yearned for his home; yearned to hold his family near to him, to see his son's face, to kiss his little head, all while holding them both in his arms.

..

When Foyle finally stepped back on English soil in November, the letter lay in the pocket of his uniform shirt; worn thin from the many times he had folded and refolded it through the last few months. Inside it lay the faded, worn photograph Rosalind had sent him; from it, his wife and son smiled out at him.


	19. 49: Friendship

Title: 49: Friendship

Author: TartanLioness

…

Hanging up the phone, Sam sighed, then looked up to see Milner standing in the doorway, holding a cup of tea.

"I thought you'd gone home!" she exclaimed. Milner smiled slightly.

"Not yet. Have you managed to find anywhere yet?" He gestured to the phone with his saucer.

"No. I've been ringing around to the hotels and guesthouses, but, um, amazing! They all seem to be full."

"How many have you tried?"

"About a dozen!"

They were both quiet for a moment. Then Milner asked softly, "What will you do if you can't find anywhere?"

"I don't know. I suppose I'll have to stay here; maybe someone will give me a cell." Sam smirked. "Funny, my father always said I'd end up behind bars."

They both chuckled shortly, feeling the camaraderie between them and enjoying it.

"You can't do that, Sam." Milner hesitated only a brief moment, the decision already made. "You can come and stay with me if you like."

Sam stared at him for a few seconds, before saying disbelievingly and hopefully, "Really?"

"Just for a few days I mean – I don't want you to get the wrong idea. But my wife is away with her sister in Wales and I have a spare room at the back of the house."

"Oh, that would be really tickety-boo, are you sure?"

"Yes. There is one thing, though. I don't think we should mention this to Mr Foyle."

"No, I think you're right," she replied thoughtfully. "I don't think he'd approve." She paused, then looked at him with sincere gratitude. "This is very, very kind of you."

Milner smiled widely. "Don't mention it."

…

Her first evening with Milner passed quietly. They had a quick meal – Milner's cooking tonight, Sam insisting she would repay the favour the next – and their conversation was friendly and easy. After dinner, each sat down with a cup of tea in the living room, Milner going over some case notes as Sam perused his book collection.

"Oh!" Sam suddenly exclaimed, rising to pull out a worn book. "I haven't read this in ages!"

Milner looked up with curiosity, expecting to find her holding one of his few mystery novels. She wasn't.

"I never figured you for a romance reader," he teased, as she sat down in a chair by the fire. She grinned.

"I was sixteen once too you know. Besides! It's Austen!"

"Indeed. I was always more partial to _Pride and Prejudice,_ though," Milner said with a gleam in his eyes. Sam looked suitably shocked at the fact that he had read Jane Austen's novels.

"Yes, me too," Sam agreed cheerfully. "I always rather liked Colonel Brandon, though. But Marianne Dashwood is a bit of a twit."

Milner couldn't help it; he laughed heartily at her. Soon enough, Sam joined in, feeling the strain of the war and her situation disappear at least for the moment.

"A twit, then?" Milner teased lightly, when their laughter had subsided.

"Yes, rather! I never thought of it when I was younger, really, but isn't she a bit daft in her choice of love-interest? I mean, sure Willoughby was charming and good-looking, but he's a bit of a cad, isn't he? And meanwhile there's this honourable, decent man desperately in love with her and she doesn't deem him capable of loving anyone because he is too old! Too _old_! He's in his thirties!"

"There is a bit of an age difference between them, though."

"When has love ever cared about age?"

While she had been talking, Milner's expression had changed from fond amusement to thoughtfulness. Sam finally noticed this, and immediately had to go over in her mind what she'd just said. She nearly flushed, realising that she had come very close to expressing her oh-so-secret love for their boss to Milner. She wondered if he'd understand why she'd only recently come to the conclusion that Marianne Dashwood might possibly be the stupidest woman in romantic literature. Judging by the way he was looking at her, he understood only too well.

Biting her lip, Sam put the book back on the shelf, having suddenly lost any desire to read it again.

"Actually, I was thinking I might go to bed. I'm absolutely worn out. Do you mind awfully?"

"No, no, not at all," Milner reassured her, standing up as well. "Give me five minutes to throw on some sheets, and you're set." He smiled at her. There was an uncertainty in her eyes, showing her fear that she may just have revealed too much to him. Little did she know that he was not surprised in the least.

He left the living room and Sam was left alone to ponder her own situation and the look she had seen in her co-worker's eyes a few minutes before. She felt uncomfortable. It looked too much like sympathy, acceptance and knowledge. For a moment she contemplated the wisdom of 'look before you leap', then Milner was back, smiling cheerfully as he offered to show her to her room.

In the hall, he picked up her meagre belongings and carried them upstairs for her, pointing out the bathroom before opening a door to a small but cosy room. Setting down Sam's suitcase just inside the door, Milner smiled softly and bid her goodnight, closing the door gently behind him as he left.

…

Paul Milner woke suddenly and with a start. Something had disturbed him but for a few moments he wasn't sure what. Then he heard it again: soft whimpering coming from the other side of the hallway. _Sam must be having a nightmare_, he thought with sympathy, remembering his own nightmares after Trondheim. Then her weeping turned into muffled screams and Milner, who had already sat up in bed, decided to forego fumbling with his prosthesis and instead grabbed the crutches that were always by his bed.

Hobbling as quickly as he dared in the total darkness, he made his way to Sam's room and knocked softly a few times before his sense of propriety gave way to his need to help her. He opened the door.

Sam's room was just as dark as the rest of the house and Milner momentarily cursed the blackout as he felt his way across the room using his crutches and his hearing. When one crutch finally hit something hard, he leaned down to gently shake the thrashing woman in the bed. When her body only tensed further, he shook her more firmly, calling her name as well.

Finally Sam gasped, and her body relaxed marginally.

"Paul?" Her voice was small, making his stomach clench. Memories stirred in his mind, memories of waking up from nightmares like hers and finding no one there to console him.

"You had a nightmare, Sam."

She sighed shakily. "It seemed so… real," she whispered.

"I know," Milner replied earnestly. "I'll let you get back to sleep. Try not to have any more nightmares, all right?"

"Yes, sergeant," Sam teased weakly, hearing him fumble with something and then limp across the hard wood of her floor. But when she heard the door open, she suddenly couldn't face being alone.

Ashamed of herself, she asked, "Paul? Would you stay? Just for a bit, I mean. I just… I don't want to go to sleep just yet."

At the door, Milner turned around despite the fact that he couldn't see her. He understood. She wasn't propositioning him – and if she was, she'd never do so in such a weak voice. She just needed company; couldn't face being alone with her thoughts just now. So he nodded, uselessly in the dark, and slowly made his way back across the floor. Sam heard him move with a sigh of relief, not having seen his nod.

"Then would you mind if we lit a candle?"

Sam nearly jumped at hearing his voice so close again, but reached out for the matches on her nightstand. A few seconds later, a flickering flame bathed the room in a soft, yellow light and Sam saw Milner slump down in a chair close to her bed. Suddenly she understood why his movements had sounded so strange to her; she hadn't heard two feet, she'd heard one foot and two crutches. His left pyjama leg was hanging from his bent knee.

Milner followed her gaze to his absent leg and Sam blushed at having been so indiscreet. Milner smiled a little.

"It's okay, Sam. You can look."

"You didn't put on the prosthesis?"

He looked down and realised how he must look to her. Even his wife hadn't been able to deal with it. Why would he think his co-worker could? "I'm sorry, Sam. If it bothers you I'll…"

"No, no, it doesn't, not at all," Sam quickly reassured him. "I just… I should've thought it would be easier for you to move around with that than with crutches."

"It is," he agreed, relieved that his missing leg at least didn't seem to bother all women. At her questioning look, he squirmed slightly in his seat before admitting, "You sounded like you were in pain. I didn't want you to suffer longer than necessary. I know what these nightmares are like."

Sam bit her lip. "Does it ever get better?"

Milner smiled sadly at her in the candle-light. "Yes, it does. Eventually."

She looked at him thoughtfully for a few moments, then said softly, "Thank you, Paul." And he knew she didn't just mean for the answer. He smiled at her again, picked up his crutches, and once more hauled himself to his feet.

"You're welcome, Sam," he said, and couldn't remember when he'd last said anything and meant it as much as this.

A few seconds later, the door closed behind him and Sam blew out the candle.


	20. 63: Future

Title: 63: Future

Author: TartanLioness

…

The office is bathed in golden light from the rays of late-afternoon sun that sweeps through the windows. As he straightens his tie – not without a certain feeling of nervousness – Foyle watches his driver closely. She seems altogether too calm as she sits there in front of his desk, her hair shining in the sunlight, hat placed gingerly on her knees, and looking (he can't help but notice) entirely delectable.

With a sigh, he pulls the sheet out of the typewriter and places it on the desk before rising from his chair and pulling on his suit jacket.

"Ready?" Sam asks getting to her feet. "You know Paul is only going to be happy for us, don't you?"

"I know," he replies immediately, twisting his lips. Then, "Sam…" He hesitates, unsure of how to broach the subject. It had been her idea to invite Sergeant Milner out for a drink tonight in order to tell him that the two of them were stepping out, but somehow he is not sure she quite understands the implications of letting their budding relationship become common knowledge.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

She whips around then, her eyes wide at the tone of his voice, and for a moment they just look at each other. Then Sam walks over to where he stands, lost in the middle of his office, and places her hand on his cheek.

"Christopher, yes," she said softly. "I'm not ashamed of my love for you."

"You don't understand, Sam. People will… They might not understand our love, might not accept it. They'll call you names and look down their nose at you because they won't believe that your feelings for me are true."

"Do _you_ doubt my feelings for you?" she asks him, almost timidly, and he fidgets, hesitating.

Then he looks her directly in the eyes and says calmly, "No, Sam, I don't. I certainly don't know why on earth you would want an old man like me, but I don't doubt your affection, as I hope you don't doubt mine."

Sam shakes her head with vigour. He smiles slightly.

"But our private happiness won't matter to other people with their wagging tongues and pointed fingers, Sam. People can be cruel when they don't understand something – or when they firmly believe that something untoward is going on."

"But there's nothing untoward about our relationship! We're getting married!" she protests heatedly. Foyle sighs and rubs his fingers across his brow.

"It won't matter to them, I'm afraid. They'll either think that you've only married me for my money or my position or because you… because you had to. As for me, they'll think I abused my authority to dupe a susceptible young woman under my command."

"I don't understand," Sam said uncertainly. "Do you mean… are you trying to tell me you'd rather… rather we stopped seeing each other outside of work?"

For a long time, Foyle doesn't reply. Finally, he looks up at her.

"If I were a better man, I'd tell you 'yes'. I'd tell you to forget all about me and hurry back home to Lyminster and find a nice young man there to marry. It'd be much better for you. But I can't; I need you, Sam. But I… I also need you to know what you're doing. I need to know that you won't be surprised by other people's reactions, and come to resent me for them."

"Christopher," Sam says with gentle determination. "I know that some people won't understand what we… how we feel about each other. But they don't matter, darling. I'd rather face all those ignorant comments with you by my side than live any kind of life without you. Do you understand that?"

Foyle nods. Gratified and more awed than ever by his good fortune, he pulls his fiancée close for a loving kiss, then takes her hand as they leave the police station.

...


	21. 70: Lost

Title: 70: Lost

Author: TartanLioness

A/N: I'm down with a severe cold and feeling entirely maudlin and angsty and this is what came out of that. Thought I'd share. Dancesabove is, as usual, the best person in this world.

…

The night he found out that she had married Adam because she'd believed him to be her last chance, because she'd believed that she would eventually grow to love him, Foyle asked Sam why. Why she had settled.

And she looked at him with sadness in her doe-like, brown eyes and told him that she couldn't keep waiting. That she'd wanted a family of her own, with a man who loved her. That she couldn't keep dreaming.

She turned to leave, but stopped in the doorway and turned back to him.

"Could I just ask you one question?" Sam prefaced, biting her lip. He met her eyes and nodded minutely. "Do you… do you think you could ever have loved me back?"

Her heart thudded in her chest as she awaited his answer. Seconds passed. Foyle had cast down his eyes and bowed his head, but Sam didn't doubt for a moment that he would answer her when he was ready. Finally he looked up, his piercing blue eyes dark and sad.

"I'll never stop."

And the tears overflowed her eyes as she fled the room.


	22. 57: Drink

Title: 57: Drink

Author: TartanLioness

…

Sam giggles lightly as she unlocks the front door and staggers into the darkened hallway. Turning, she closes the door carefully behind her, annoyed that it seems to slam nevertheless, and locks it securely.

Head spinning, she makes her way to the kitchen for a glass of water. Sitting down at the small kitchen table, she sips her water slowly. The buzz in her body is gradually dying down and her good mood is fading somewhat.

The evening of dancing with Katie and the girls has been lovely; somehow just the ticket; a bit of fun to distract her and make her forget all her worries. They danced with every chap who asked and had a marvellous time, and she has to admit she's probably had a bit too much to drink. Not so much as to be out of control, but enough, now that she isn't pleasantly preoccupied, to make her feel rather maudlin.

She sighs, finishing her water, and puts the glass on the kitchen counter to be washed up in the morning. Still feeling somewhat dizzy, she presses a hand to the wall to steady herself as she makes her way upstairs.

After brushing her teeth and changing into her nightgown, Sam sits down on her bed. All the pleasure from the alcohol she has consumed has disappeared and she feels her chest constrict with sudden melancholy. Biting her lip, she reaches out for the framed picture on her nightstand. The whole staff of the Hastings Constabulary looks out at her with serious faces and she lets her eyes wander among her friends, pausing only briefly on Milner before settling on the man alongside her in the picture. The DCS looks suitably solemn, but even in the photograph, Sam can see the slight crook of an eyebrow – his reaction to a rather dry-humoured comment she had made just before the picture was taken.

She remembers the feel of him standing there next to her that morning. It'd been a dreary day, really, the sky grey and gloomy and the wind smelling like rain, but she'd been focussed only on the man standing beside and slightly behind her. His arm had been pressing into hers and she could feel the warmth of his body, even through the thick material of her uniform.

Sam lets her fingers ghost over the black-and-white image of his face, caressing its contours. A deep sense of hopelessness courses through her body, and tears sting her eyes. She feels her chest constrict at the thought of the hours they've spent together driving around the South Downs, their easy banter, their… she dares to call it a friendship. She misses the time she's spent with him – England may have been at war, but those years had possibly been the best of her life. Her days with him had beautifully outweighed the food-shortages and the other small annoyances of wartime; and in him she had found someone to trust with her fears and worries about her friends who were fighting for king and country.

She can't help but wonder what he is doing; what time is it in America now? Is he preparing to go out for a drink? Who is he with? Is he missing her? Does she even cross his mind?

Lately it seems that all _she_ thinks about is him. Especially after Adam – _no, don't think about it, Sam!_ She doesn't want to dwell on Adam or the way their engagement ended. She wants to think about Foyle; she wants to wallow in this melancholy mood for a little while longer, wants to savour this ache in her chest. The prickling behind her eyes intensifies and she feels the tears well up. She does nothing to banish them – instead, she stares at Foyle's miniature face through the tears, letting them drip onto the glass when they finally fall from her eyes. They splatter across the surface, one obscuring Milner's handsome, stern face, another landing on the shoulder of a uniformed constable.

Her body and mind feel heavy with need for him. It isn't purely physical – it's as if her very soul longs to be close to him; to see those beautiful blue eyes turn to her and twinkle as they sometimes did, to have him raise an eyebrow in a silent question to her or see him twist his mouth as he contemplates a case, to sit next to him in the Wolseley and smell his cologne, to feel her body tingle with tension as his hand rests on the back of her seat, his fingers so close to her neck.

She misses him; misses him with everything that she is, though she only admits it to herself on nights like this when her resistance is low and she can't deny it any longer. These nights when she lies in her bed, clutching his photograph to her chest, and weeps into her pillow, finally falling asleep when her tears have exhausted her.

…

He knows he shouldn't have another. He is already feeling maudlin and it is only eight o'clock. It will be a long evening if he has more to drink.

Nevertheless, Foyle pours himself another glass of Jim Beam bourbon. It isn't Glenlivet, he muses, but it is drinkable.

The weather is glorious and the veranda is crowded with other patrons of the small but comfortable hotel in which he is based. Despite the other guests, however, he is sitting by himself, attempting to read a book but instead letting his thoughts drift again and again to England. Or rather, to one aspect of England in particular. Although he knows that her offer was made in jest, he regrets not allowing Sam to come with him to America. Driving on the wrong side of the road is difficult enough, but more problematic is the way his thoughts constantly wander when he should be relaxing. When working, his mind is on the job, always alert and professional; but whenever he comes back to his hotel room, his thoughts inevitably turn to her.

Draining his glass, he carries it and the bottle of Jim Beam inside, his book tucked neatly under his arm. His room is small but well-furnished and he would have felt quite at home there, were he not missing Hastings so much. He shakes his head at himself. It isn't Hastings he's missing.

Pouring yet another half-inch of bourbon, he gives up trying to avoid the glum thoughts. They seem intent on plaguing him tonight.

He sits down in his usual chair and stares out of the window. It overlooks the garden behind the house, a lovely little place full of flowers and greenery, but he sees none of it. Instead his mind's eye is full of her.

In his imagination she is once again wearing that lovely plum-coloured dress she wore to the Americans' dance in '42 and her hair is a coppery-golden tumble framing her happy face. He remembers the way her smile lit up her features as they talked that evening, how she turned to him and beamed, making him feel as if he were the most important man there. Of course, she also spent the evening dancing with that American… but Foyle refuses to dwell on that now. Instead, he focusses on her large dark eyes shining with joy and her face flushed sweetly with the exertion of dancing. As he has many times before, he berates himself for not asking her to dance. For never asking her to dance.

A new memory presents itself: Sam swaying softly in time with the music in his kitchen as she cooks their dinner. For someone who has just lost her billet and all her belongings, not to mention her flatmate, she seems incredibly content. She's barefoot, her tie has been loosened and her uniform jacket is placed on the back of one of his kitchen chairs, looking as though it belongs there.

He remembers how badly he longed to ask her to dance with him, right there in his kitchen, but then thought better of it. Not only is he a mediocre dancer at the best of times, he also didn't dare hold her in his arms so soon after nearly losing her. But he'd promised himself to dance with her as soon as he had a credible reason for doing so.

_Well,_ he snorts to himself. _So much for that. You didn't ask her to dance when the Americans gave you the chance. NOR at the VE Day celebrations. The next chance you'll have will probably be at her wedding. Don't see that going well. You bloody coward._

He forces his thoughts back to the evening in his kitchen, remembering fondly the sheepish look on her face and her sincere apologies after she dropped a glass on the floor, shattering it into a million shards, and how he had warned her to stay away from the wreckage with her bare feet while he cleaned up. He skews his lips to the side as he recalls the way she hobbled away after the fragments had been swept into the dustpan, her left foot leaving small marks of blood on his floor. Sitting down, she had twisted her foot around to try and find the sliver of glass that had embedded itself in her flesh, but when this proved impossible she had shyly asked him to help. With his shirtsleeves rolled up, he had sat down with her bare foot in his lap and had gently felt around for the shard. Her sharp intake of breath let him know when he found it and he had removed it quickly, holding his handkerchief to her foot to stop the blood.

It had been a deeply intimate moment, sitting there in his kitchen with his hands on her foot in his lap, soothing the damaged skin with slow, unconscious strokes of his fingers. So intimate that the memory of it leaves him breathless now.

With a deep sigh, Foyle takes another sip of his bourbon and turns his eyes to his door. At this moment he aches to see her, to have her open the door and sweep into his room with a wide smile, eager to tell him some mad anecdote. When the door doesn't budge, he shuts his eyes tightly in irrational disappointment, then reopens them to gaze at the hydrangeas and rhododendrons in the garden. The shadows of the fruit trees are growing long as the sun begins its slow descent in the west, casting a golden light over the landscape, but Foyle can't appreciate the beauty.

If only Sam _were_ to come in, his thoughts meander, he wouldn't delay any more. He wouldn't let his inhibitions keep him from hugging her close at the joy of seeing her. And if he were to experience that glimmer of suspicion that he sometimes does – that sudden surge of a notion that she might feel as drawn to him as he is to her – if she looked into his eyes and welcomed it, he would do more than that. He would know what it was to turn her wilful little chin and feel her soft lips beneath his, and then he would tell her how long he'd been dreaming of that very thing. How achingly long.

_She's getting married. There's an end to it._ Christopher Foyle brusquely swallows back the tears that sting behind his eyes as he stands and leans against the window-frame. Draining his glass of the last of his bourbon, he sinks into melancholy and stares visionless at the flowers below.

...


End file.
